What Happens in New York
by ridiculous thoughts
Summary: Crack/Angst Prompt fill: "Inspired by The Hangover. Because William Schuester is the worst chaperone in the history of time, the Glee Kids have a night on the town and wind up in some... interesting situations."
1. Prologue: Will & Brittany

**Summary**: Based on a prompt by Morkhan on the Glee Angst Meme:

"_Inspired by __The Hangover__. Because William Schuester is the worst chaperone in the history of time, the Glee Kids have a night on the town and wind up in some... __interesting __situations._

On Day 2 in NYC...

_Finn and Puck wake up cuddled on a bench in Central Park. With no shirts on. Wearing each others' underwear. As hats.__  
>Sam and Tina wake up fully clothed in an unfamiliar hotel room. Sleeping on the bed between them is a small Asian child that neither has ever seen before.<br>Quinn, Mercedes, and Mike wake up mostly naked on a mattress __on a rooftop__. No one can quite remember who had sex with who.  
>Rachel and Kurt wake up on an unfamiliar couch. They soon discover they are in the apartment of a small family of two parents, a boy, and a girl... all of whom speak only Russian.<br>Lauren and Santana wake up in a shelter of cardboard boxes in an alleyway. They are surrounded by broken glass, covered in bruises, and, for whatever reason, both carrying nunchuks.  
>Artie wakes up being pushed around an unfamiliar area of town by a strange homeless man who calls him 'Clarence' and uses him as a human shopping cart.<br>__Brittany wakes up bright and early in her hotel room ready to face the day and wondering where everybody went._

_None of them have wallets or cell phones on them. And none of them have any idea__ how they got there. How did it happen? How do they get home? What does William Schuester do when he realizes he lost __**every single damn kid he was responsible for **__except one?"_

A/N: I can't promise that all points of the prompt will be covered, but I'll do what I can. This is my first attempt at Glee fanfic, as well as crack-angst, so please let me know what you think. Thanks!

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><p><strong>What Happens in New York<strong>

**Prologue: Will & Brittany**

William Schuester walked down the 13th floor hallway of the Manhattan Holiday Inn with a bounce in his step. Everything was going well: not only did the New Directions finally make it to Nationals, but Will even had an audition today for a Broadway play! April Rhodes may not be the best playwright, but she still managed to score a theater on Broadway, and that's what mattered, right? Right!

He waved jauntily at the cleaning ladies as he passed their laundry cart. He had to meet April in an hour, but first he had to get the kids out of bed and remind them that they had to finish their songwriting by mid-afternoon so they could start rehearsals tonight. It was last-minute, but last-minute was sort of their thing. Heck, they came up with an entire new setlist on the day of their first Sectionals and still won. If they could do that, they could do anything!

He finally made it to the boys' room and knocked loudly on the door. "Boys, time to get up!" There was no response, but that didn't worry him. They probably weren't morning people. "Breakfast downstairs in 15 minutes!" he shouted, and walked across the hall to the girls' room.

"Rise and shine, ladies!" he called, knocking again.

This time, Brittany answered the door. "Good morning Brittany," he chirped. "Is everyone up?"

"Um… up where?" she asked, puzzled. "Do you know where everyone is, Mr. Shue?"

Will frowned. "What do you mean? Aren't they here?" He stepped around her to see into the room, ready to cover his eyes at the first sign of pajamas. Only one bed was rumpled, the other still made and the cot folded up against the wall. Other than Brittany, the room was empty of people.

"Mr. Shue," Brittany said, "I think they were abducted by aliens."


	2. Kurt & Rachel

**Kurt & Rachel**

Kurt woke to the sound of a thump and a cut-off screech. Blearily, he opened his eyes to see a mop of brown hair lift itself from the floor in front of…was he lying on a couch?

The figure in front of him groaned and curled itself back into the carpet, muttering something about a Tony award. "Rachel?" he rasped. Okay, wow—movement bad. Movement very, very bad. He closed his eyes and lay still. "Rachel," he whispered carefully, "why do I feel like an entire line of Gucci stiletto models just catwalked over my head?"

Her response sounded something like "groan mumble mumble ow mumble."

He tried opening his eyes again and found that, yes, he was in fact lying on a couch, in an unfamiliar room that was definitely not a hotel (unless the interior designer was blind as well as an illegal immigrant—American flag curtains? Seriously?). And now the stripes were going right to his stomach. Deep breathes, Kurt, deep breathes. You will not throw up on Rachel. You will not throw up on Rachel. You will not—

"Oh Prada, look out…" Kurt hopped over his frenemy, hit the coffee table with a shin and in a superb football move twisted himself toward the open kitchen area and wrenched the lid off the trash can just in time to meet the peppermint-flavored contents of his stomach. He heard an "oh, God" behind him as Rachel stumbled down the hall, probably in search of the bathroom. Bracing himself on the rim of the can, Kurt closed his eyes and waited for the nausea to pass. He knew the feeling of a hangover, and he knew that he must have drunk way more alcohol last night than was sane. The smell of peppermint was bringing back images of lights and dancing, loud techno-drums and laughter and city streets and…Oh holy Prada, was that a ring on his finger?

He lifted his left hand to his face and stared. It was a ring. On his ring finger. A definitely not gold ring with three not white-gold stripes. Did he mention it was on his ring finger? On his left hand?

Kurt scrabbled at the ring (NOT gold), trying to pull it off but it wouldn't budge. Oh no, it was too tight. It was cutting off his circulation! Soon his finger would turn purple, and then he would get gangrene, and he would have to cut it off, and then he could never be a hand model—if the opportunity should ever arise, after all who knew what interns were required to do in the fashion industry—

A hand touched his shoulder and he jumped (and may have shrieked, but no one has to know that). "Вы хорошо, дороги?" asked a woman's voice. A very female, very unfamiliar, very not-English woman's voice.

She was blond, blue-eyed, possibly Russian, and old enough to be his mother. "Um, hi," he said nervously. "Is this your place?" she just looked at him, puzzled. "Okay. No English?" She shook her head with a smile. "Right. Okay. Um, sorry about…" he waved in the direction of the trash can. She gave him a sympathetic look and went over to the sink, grabbing a small (red white and blue) towel and holding it under the tap. "Ni-nice apartment" he said weakly, trying again to subtly pull the ring off his finger. "Love the flag. Yay, America. Please tell me we're not married."

"Oh, my head," Rachel moaned, tip-toeing into the room from the hallway. She navigated blindly, one hand and most of her hair covering her eyes and the other hand tracing along the wall in front of her. "I swear, as long as I live, I will never, ever, ever drink again. Do you have any idea of the damage that bile can do to your throat? Lesions. Scarring. Raspy voice syndrome. Oh God, I can not pull off Janis Joplin. Well, I'm sure I can, but I don't think Broadway has many—oh!" At this point, she had finally peeked through her fingers and spotted the older blond woman watching her from Kurt's side, where she dabbed the wet cloth in her hand against his aching forehead. He eyed Rachel pleadingly, hoping that she knew the woman or at least knew how they had ended up in her apartment.

Rachel glanced between them and straightened up, holding out her hand for the woman to shake. "Hello," she said brightly, "I'm Rachel Berry, lead singer of the New Directions and future Broadway star." Kurt groaned. If not for the pained pinch in her red-rimmed eyes, he might hate her for unleashing such a horribly, horribly sunny smile in such a horrible, horrible situation. The unlikely-to-ever-be-named blond woman shook her hand with a (so far permanently) confused smile. Rachel soldiered on, "And you are?"

"Undetermined," Kurt said flatly. Rachel's grin weakened slightly. "She doesn't speak English."

"Oh." She brightened again. "IT'S NICE TO MEET YOU," she said in a loud, drawn out voice. The poor woman winced. "THANK YOU," she put her palms together in a little Japanese bow, "FOR LETTING US—"

"Rachel!" Kurt hissed.

"-STAY THE NIGHT IN YOUR LOVELY HOME."

"Rachel, she's Russian, not deaf!"

She gave him a strange look. "How do you know?"

"Because—"

"доброе утро, свет," said a male voice from the hall. Kurt and Rachel froze, while the older woman turned to welcome the newcomer with a smile. Strike that—there were more than one. An older man, also blond, and what were presumably their two children, a boy and girl who looked around Kurt and Rachel's age, all crowded into the kitchen, speaking cheerily in that Russian-sounding language. Rachel snuck closer to Kurt's side while the family greeted each other with kisses.

"Do you recognize any of them?" Kurt whispered.

Rachel shook her head mournfully. "I have absolutely no idea who any of these people are. How in the world did we get here last night?"

"I don't know. I don't remember a thing." He glanced down at his finger. Was his skin turning blue?

Rachel gasped. "Kurt, is that a ring?"

"What? No!" He covered it with his hand as she made to grab at his finger. "It's, um, oh—look! Coffee!"

The woman had turned her attention to the coffee machine while her family now watched Kurt and Rachel with differing levels of concern. Kurt batted away Rachel's groping hand with a nervous laugh. "Ah, I don't suppose one of you speaks English?" he tried.

The older man approached them with a stern look on his face and said something in the kind of voice that made Kurt worry that he might get shot for not understanding a word of it. The man looked them both in the eye for a very long, nerve-wracking moment, then clapped his hands to Kurt's shoulders. Kurt whimpered.

"добро пожаловать в семью," he said. He clapped his shoulders again (no, Kurt's knees did not buckle) and slapped his back once for good measure. The slap pushed Kurt forward a step toward the next family member, this time the girl. She also gave Kurt a short speech, her voice serious but her eyes sly and amused. Before he could stop her, she pinched his cheek and pulled him in for a very stiff hug.

Kurt heard a distinct snicker from behind him and gave his former-friend the evil side-eye.

Finally the girl moved aside to reveal her brother, a short blond boy who was pretty enough to give Kurt cavities just from looking at him. He smiled at Kurt bashfully and then threw his arms around the taller boy's neck and planted a kiss on his lips.

Kurt's arms flew up in the universal sign of 'WTF?'

He stumbled back into the (peppermint-smelling) trash can and almost knocked it over in his haste to detach himself from the deranged boy. "What—what are—who—ugh!" he cried, wiping his mouth furiously.

Rachel grabbed at Kurt's arm in shock as she pointed at the Russian boy's hand. "Kurt, look!" she said. "Look at his finger!"

Bemused, but noticing Rachel's interest in his hand, the Russian boy raised it in front of him with a wide smile. "да," he said cheerily. "Я - ваш муж. Разве Америка не замечательна?"

The ring on his finger looked exactly like Kurt's. Three not white-gold stripes and all.

Kurt may or may not have screamed.

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><p>**Translations, in order of appearance (according to random online English to Russian translator. Apologies if you know Russian! ;D ):<p>

Are you all right, dear?

Good morning, sunshine.

Welcome to the family.

Yes. I am your husband. Isn't America wonderful?


	3. Kurt & Rachel part deux

**Kurt & Rachel part deux**

Kurt pounded down the stairs of the Russians' apartment building like his Alexander McQueen boots were on fire. "Kurt, wait, slow down!" Rachel called from the stairway above him. "I can't run in these shoes!"

Kurt swooped down to the next landing and kept going. "Every man and woman for himself, sister!" he yelled back. He chanced a look up the cement stairwell and saw the bobbing blond head close behind the diva. "Tell him if he comes any closer I'll push him down the steps!"

"Kurt!"

"Don't think I won't do it! I was coached by Sue Sylvester!"

"That would be spousal abuse!" she laughed.

Kurt jumped the last few steps to the first floor and shouldered the heavy emergency exit door open, emerging out into the shade of an alleyway between two brick buildings. Both ends opened into neighborhood streets, but to his right a line of cardboard boxes lined with blankets and shopping carts blocked the way. Oddly, a pile of empty Godiva boxes and multi-colored dildos covered the entrance of the largest box. And was that a nunchuk sticking out of the bottom?

"Oof!" Rachel cried as she ran into his back. Spurred into movement once again, Kurt grabbed her hand and speed-walked in the opposite direction from the little homeless town, towards the way-too-bright, sunny city street.

"Do you have any idea where we are?" he asked, searching for a street sign.

Rachel looked skyward. "No. Unfortunately, I don't recognize this neighborhood."

"Fantastic."

"As much as I hate to think of the cost involved, I think we should hail a cab."

Kurt eyed the road in each direction, seeing only parked cars and empty sidewalks lined with apartment buildings like the one they had escaped from. "We'll have to call a taxi service," he sighed, reaching for his phone.

His pockets were empty.

Kurt's heart started to race. He padded down his skinny jeans, his baby-blue Dior shirt, his waistband, and finally took off his boots to scour the inside. "Rachel, check your purse," he said, his voice rising an octave. "I can't find my phone. Or my wallet."

Rachel paled. "Oh my god. My purse. I don't have it!"

"Maybe you left it inside," he said, trying not to panic. "Go back and look for it."

"What, by myself?"

"Yes! Now, go!"

Rachel huffed and marched up to their blond shadow. "You," she said, grabbing his arm, "come with me." She dragged him around to the front door of his apartment building and managed to tell him, through a series of threateningly sharp hand gestures, to let her in. They disappeared inside.

A long twenty or so minutes later (how did people tell time before cell phones?), after Kurt had been forced to take advantage of a blind corner of hedges to relieve himself—about which no one will ever, ever find out—the two finally reemerged. From Rachel's empty hands and the unfeigned look of horror on her face, Kurt could tell that the mission had been a failure.

"It's gone," she said as she approached. "I can't believe it. All my contacts, my saved text messages from Finn," she gasped, "my pictures! How could I lose my phone!" she wailed.

"Forget your pictures, we have no money! How are we supposed to pay for a taxi now?"

Rachel put her hand over her mouth. "Oh Kurt, we've been mugged!"

Kurt eyed the blond boy suspiciously. "Do you think the Russians had something to do with it?"

"What—of course not," she brushed him off. "They're such a sweet family. Besides, they're your in-laws."

"They are not!"

"Well, I sincerely doubt that they would mug us and then let us sleep on their couch."

Kurt ran his hands through his already rumpled hair. "This is not helping. We have to get to a phone and call someone."

"I tried that upstairs," Rachel admitted, "but…unfortunately, like I said, all of my contacts are on my phone. I don't know anyone's phone number. Except for home, of course, but I would rather not call my dads right now."

Kurt was embarrassed to realize how dependent he was on his contact list, as well.

"Right, then," Rachel said, straightening up. "So we have no money. We'll just have to walk back. This is New York, right? People walk everywhere in New York. We can't be that far away."

Kurt reluctantly agreed. "We should look for a subway station. They always have maps that tell you where you are."

Rachel smiled brightly. "Good idea! Subway stations are everywhere. There has to be one nearby."

He looked both ways down the road, seeing the same lack of signs—or people—in each direction. "Left or right?" he asked.

"My diva-sense is telling me left."

"Left it is, then," he shrugged, taking her hand.

They power-walked down five blocks of empty neighborhood streets before they had to stop for a red light. Behind them, the Russian boy followed. Kurt refused to acknowledge him. "Why didn't you leave him in the apartment?" he whispered to the slightly panting girl beside him.

"Who—oh," she said. "He followed me back out. You're being really rude by ignoring him, by the way."

"Couldn't you have—I don't know, slammed the door on him or something?"

A single car drove past. From the corner of his eye, Kurt could see the apologetically amused glances that Rachel kept throwing behind them. "Stop looking," he hissed. "You're encouraging him."

"He is cute," she said.

"He's ten!"

"No he's not," she laughed. "If he was ten, then you couldn't have married him."

Kurt groaned. "Oh, God. Do you see anyone behind him?"

"You mean the angry Russian man with a gun?"

Kurt gasped and turned around. "Where?"

The blond kid looked up from his spot ten feet back, a hopeful smile on his face. Behind him, the sidewalk was clear.

"Kurt…are you actually using me as a human shield?"

He glanced down at the diva that he was, in fact, holding in front of him. "…No." He pushed her aside. "But you deserve it for trying to scare me."

"The light's green."

They hurried across the street, light footsteps trailing behind them as they went.

"Mr. Schue must be crippled with worry right now," Rachel said. "After all, his star performers are missing the day before Nationals. Everyone must be absolutely beside themselves in despair," she cried with a hand placed dramatically on her chest.

Kurt felt oddly warmed. "I'm sure they are."

"I wish I could see them right now," she continued, "in the moment when they finally realize just how much they need me. No one has ever fully appreciated what my talent brings to our group. As the great Carole King once said, 'You never know what you have until it's gone.'"

He raised an eyebrow and sighed. "Oh, Rachel. How easily you warm my heart, and in the next breath, tempt me to throw you in front of a car. Your talent to both charm and incite me to murder knows no bounds."

Several blocks of fruitless searching later, Rachel finally pulled at his hand to stop. "Hang on a minute," she said. "This is not working. I still don't see any signs for the subway. We have to ask someone for directions."

Kurt surveyed the street critically. "We've only walked like half a mile, Rachel. Unless you want to flag down a car, there's nobody around to ask."

"Well, we have to find someone."

"If you want to go knock on someone's door, go ahead."

"Well, you could ask…" she jerked her head at the lost little Russian behind them. "Justin."

"Who?" Kurt eyed her.

"Justin. That's what I've decided to call him," she said, crossing her arms. "Doesn't he look like Justin Bieber?"

He gaped in horror. "No he—just—no!" he sputtered. "You are not naming him! And certainly not after Jus—Justin—just, ew!"

"Look buddy, I am really, really hungry! So whatever his name is, I say you ask him for directions!"

"Why don't you ask him?" he growsed.

"He's your husband!"

"No he's not!"

She squinted. "Kurt Hummel, you ask him for directions or I swear I will tell everyone that you peed in the bushes this morning!"

He gasped. "How did you—"

She smirked. "Apartments do have windows." she said, and pointed. "Now, go!"

Kurt glared, flushing. Then, turning, on his heels, he sped back towards the Russian boy. He crossed his arms and put on his best bitch-face. "All right. Look, you baby-bottom-faced Teen Bop Magazine reject, I don't know who you are, or what your name is, or what you or I may or may not have done last night, or why you insist on trailing us through the streets like a wet piece of gum—"

"Kurt, just ask him the question."

"Fine," he huffed. "Do you," he pointed at the boy, "know," he pointed at his head, "where," he gestured around them, "the subway station," he mimed a train going underground, "is?" He ended his question with eyebrows and both hands high in the air.

The boy cocked his head, mimicked Kurt's 'subway station' gesture and shrugged.

"He doesn't know," Kurt concluded.

"I think he just doesn't know what" she moved one hand under the other, "this means," she said.

"The subway," Kurt tried again. "The train," he pointed the fingers of one hand, "that goes through the tunnel," he continued, making a tunnel with the other hand and moving them together. A snorted guffaw from Rachel made him look up at the very red-faced, wide-eyed boy. "What—ohmygod," he sputtered, snatching his hands away from each other. "I didn't mean—Rachel, help me out, here!"

"Oh God, I think I just peed a little!" she wheezed.

"Ew!" He scrunched his nose in disgust. He looked back at the boy, who seemed to have realized that Kurt was not, in fact, suggesting that one of their 'trains' go in the other's 'tunnel' (was that disappointment on his face?), and was looking at him again in askance. "Okay. No more fingering. Gesturing. Whatever. How about choo-choo? Everyone knows choo-choo, right? Choo-choo?"

Finally, the boy brightened and nodded vigorously. "Да, поезд!" he cried. "Поезд choo-choo!"

Kurt nodded encouragingly. "Yes, choo-choo! Where?" He made a show of looking around them.

"Идите со мной!" the boy said, grabbing Kurt's arm. "Я возьму Вас там."

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><p>***Translations:***<p>

Yes, train! Train is choo-choo!

Come with me! I will take you there.

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><p>AN: Did anyone notice what two other Glee members they walked right by? =)


	4. Interlude: Santana & Lauren

_**Warning: **This chapter contains multiple references to fake penises. It's Santana and Lauren, y'all._

**Interlude #1: **

**Santana & Lauren**

_Meanwhile, back in the alleyway beside the Russians' apartment building…_

"Keep looking, princess," Lauren said from her perch on a wooden crate, picking glass out of her hair.

Santana grumpily threw another purple dildo at the brick wall beside her. The foul-smelling cardboard box they had woken up in had been ransacked, upended and demolished by the wrestler already, and now Santana was left to sort through the resulting pile of Godiva boxes and adult toys to find their missing purses. "This would go a lot faster if you got off your fat ass and helped," she muttered.

"Speak up, sweetcheeks. Nothing helps a hangover better than giving a smackdown in the morning."

Santana paused at a three-pronged, cactus-like contraption with a battery compartment, but sadly she had no place to hide it under her dress. She already had a vibrating turtle in her hair.

"Why did I have to get stuck with you?" she groused. This could have been so much fun with Brittany. "When we get back, I am totally reaming out those shits for leaving us here. I bet Puck is laughing his ass off right now, the bastard."

"Oh, don't worry," Lauren said. "Puck will be walking funny for weeks if he had anything to do with this." She tapped one of the bulges in her jacket.

Great, now Santana had the horrible image of Lauren wearing the pink strap-on she'd pilfered earlier. Ew.

The two girls had woken up in this dingy alleyway with no recollection of how they had gotten there. Santana remembered leaving the hotel last night with the rest of New Directions to celebrate their first night in New York. Mr. Schue had gone to bed early, tired from the plane flight, and the glee clubbers had decided to take advantage of their lack of adult supervision to explore the city. Even Rachel agreed to go, once Quinn convinced her that the experience would provide them with plenty of songwriting material.

Then, somewhere between Central Park and Times Square, Puck and Artie had disappeared and come back with bags of cheap alcohol, and the rest was a blur until she woke up in a pile of rubber penises.

"Definitely Puck's fault," she spat. She slipped another vibrator, a thin metal rod, into her cleavage.

After another twenty minutes or so of scouring the alleyway, Santana stood and cracked her back. "That's it," she said, "I've looked everywhere. And I am not sticking my hand in no dumpster, so don't even ask, Zizes."

Lauren sighed and hopped off the crate. "Well," she said, "I think it's time to concede round one: the search for our belongings, and begin round two. Mission: find and destroy Puckerman."

Santana grabbed a whip and tied it around her waist with a toothy smile. Puck wouldn't be sitting down for a _month._ "Agreed," she said.

They left the penis-littered alley behind.

_***page break***_

Another car drove past the two girls without slowing. "This is such a drag," Santana complained.

The two had managed to find the neighborhood shopping district, a narrow street lined with mom & pop boutiques, about seven bars and an Italian café, and they stood on the corner with their thumbs out.

"Where are all the damn taxis?" she cried.

Lauren put her arm down. "Okay, new plan," she said. "Old dude, four o'clock, sitting outside the café with a newspaper. See him?"

Santana glanced over her shoulder. The 'old dude,' who looked like one of her father's business partners at the clinic, tipped his paper back up in front of his face. "What about him?"

"He's been checking you out for the past five minutes. Go ask him for a ride."

She narrowed her eyes at the wrestler. "I don't put out for creepy old men, Zizes."

"Do you want to get back to the hotel or not, princess?" Lauren rolled her eyes. "We'll ditch him when we get there."

Santana hesitated. Sure, she knew her business when it came to seduction, but that was with high school boys she could chew up and spit out for breakfast. Coming on to an older man was like trying to seduce her own father. And that was just…icky. In a major way.

"Just think of the look on Puckerman's face when his first nut cracks off," Lauren prodded.

She fingered the whip. Hmmm, Puck torture. And then she could find Brittany afterward…

The two girls strolled down the sidewalk to the café. When she reached his table, Santana sashayed over to the old man's chair and leaned over the newspaper. "Excuse me sir," she breathed, "but I seem to have misplaced my phone." She brushed her hands over her hips, showing her lack of pockets. "Could you tell me what time it is?"

The man's eyes followed her hands. "Ah, sure," he said, flustered. He hiked up his coat sleeve to reveal a grimy, ten-dollar watch. "It's about—"

"Okay, here's the deal," Lauren interrupted. The man looked back up with wide eyes. "I saw you checking out my girl here, earlier. Don't deny it," she added when he opened his mouth to respond. "We need a ride. You want my girl to ride you. I think we have the makings of a business deal."

Santana cut her eyes at the bitch. 'Ride him?' she mouthed. Did she really just say that?

"U-um," he stammered, "That's a really…kind offer, young lady, but I'm afraid I have an appointment in twenty minutes." He glanced both ways down the otherwise empty street. "However…" he licked his lips and turned back to Lauren, "how much for a quick blow?"

_Okay, that's it_, Santana seethed. She closed in behind the nasty creep and slipped the metal rod out of her cleavage. "You want a blow?" she growled, jabbing the handle of the vibrator into the back of the man's neck. With her other hand, she grabbed his chin to keep his head still. "Take us to your car or I'll blow your fucking brains out."

The man's hands flew up. "Whoa, whoa, calm down," he said. "You don't want to do this."

"Wanna bet?" Lauren asked, quickly getting into her role. She drew out the end of a nunchuk (and where did that come from?) from her sleeve. "Do as the lady says. Or I will go ninja on your ass."

His eyes bugged. "Oh God, you're the girls on the news, aren't you?"

"…That's right," Santana said. Lauren blinked at her, and she gave a small shrug. Let him believe what he wanted, as long as it worked. "Get up," she said, "slowly."

"Don't kill me," he whined.

They walked him down the block to a beat-up gray four-door parked on the side of the road. Lauren got in the front passenger seat, and Santana slipped in behind the man as he sank into the driver's side. She kept the vibrator flush against his neck. "Drive," she said.

The little car sped down the road.

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><p>AN: I got this image in my head of Santana holding a man hostage with a vibrator and I couldn't resist, lol. And yes, they were in the news…can anyone guess why? _


End file.
